The Story

I’m just writing to say I miss you, and that I’m glad I can’t forgive you, because then I’d miss you more.

May all our old love be with you,

Shannon.

He wasn’t sure which of his friends to believe: Mark said Shannon’s words meant she still held a flame for him. James said they meant she’d finally let go. And Jon said the letter meant Shannon was a crazy bitch.

But Matthew couldn’t be sure. Was this the moment to reach out? Or to keep running?

Running was how this all started. Matthew never imagined he’d be in this position, that he’d do such a thing, but that was now the slogan that followed every mention of his name in their town. Like the local eatery, “Tubbs: You’re tubby coming or going!” he was now “Matthew Keeper: that boy done ran off on his bride.” Or at least that’s what he heard from the guys. He himself was still hiding out in his grandparents’ mountain vacation home, several hundred feet past sea level from his gossiping home.

The evening of his escape the only one with an opportunity to catch him was his grandfather. He had snuck past his groomsmen popping champagne in the dressing room, then slipped behind the young preacher rehearsing his lines. Matthew thought he’d been caught out the back door where a great aunt was cleaning her glasses, but she just said “Luke dear, get your momma a peppermint” as she wiped thick lenses.

He’d almost made it to his Jeep, but Poppa Gerald had been outside having a last cigarette before the ceremony. The patriarch called Matthew over when their eyes met across the parking lot.

“Where ya headed, son? Taking a pre-vow stroll?” The man asked, but his eyes said he already knew the embarrassing answer.

Throat already swollen with heartbreak, Matthew could barely squawk out an explanation. His grandfather waited patient and silent, slowly burning the cigarette to its nub.

“Poppa, I can’t do this.”

The wrinkled head nodded, “Sure, sure,” then blew out a stream of silver smoke, “why not?”

Matthew chewed the inside of his cheek. He didn’t really know why. It was something in his stomach saying none of this was right. Everything seemed to have flown by without him- the planning, the waiting, life itself- and although he was unsure what he wanted, the migraine growing up the back of his neck was clear evidence that this was not it.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know, or don’t want to?”

Old people always asked strange questions. Their aged voices made the questions seem so heavy, so poignant. But sometimes it seemed such heaviness was more of an accident stemming from nonsense. In this case, not enough of Matthew’s brain was functioning well enough to even decide which.

“I said don’t know, Poppa. I just don’t.” He looked at his feet in their shined black loafers, “Maybe both.”

“Both it is then,” The old man nodded again as he threw the cigarette to the pavement, stomped its tiny embers to extinction. Then he reached in his inner suit pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

“I bring these to every wedding in our family, just in case.”

Matthew took them, recognizing the worn leather keychain. It was a simple circle with barely any ink left from a once proud logo: Sunset Lodge. It was the family home in the Blue Ridge mountains his grandparents flocked to every summer to escape the humidity settling into the southland.

Matthew took the keys, rubbed the soft leather thoughtfully. “Even Aunt Margie’s?”

Poppa Gerald scoffed, “Especially Aunt Margie’s. But if you tell Uncle Todd, I’ll deny it and then write you out of the will.”

There was an exchange of handshakes, a tight hug, and synced not-smiles. But when Matthew opened his car door to take off, he called turned back.

“Poppa?”

Strong shoulders and wise eyes turned to listen.

“Why aren’t you stopping me?”

“Because boy, you’ll stop when you’re ready and not before. No use in me slowing you down.”

–

Sometimes, Matthew wished he had. Things sure would be easier, wouldn’t they? There wouldn’t be so many angry voicemails from his parents on his phone. Less passive aggression would pepper the emails he received from his boss while hunched over his grandmother’s old stationary desk. He wouldn’t have gotten a speech in the driveway from his very angry sister, hair still stone-still from spray and a sweatshirt over her bridesmaid dress, about the carelessness of men and how their whole lives she’d hoped her little brother would be a good man and how absolutely could he do this. And he wouldn’t have this dark pit in his chest, a sweltering hole of hot pain where his heart knew his betrayal and screamed it back at him over and over.

And yet…

Some part of him knew he’d done the right thing. There was much regret on how he did it, and how many people he’d hurt (he thought it’d just be the one), but there was zero regret in the action itself. He’d needed to run. Marrying Shannon Stoleman, moving into her beloved townhouse, becoming the official father figure to her four-year-old Scottish terrier, and starting those lifelong plans of theirs, was just not what Matthew Keeper was supposed to do.

So after three and a half months, he was still up in the mountain house, putting in his work hours each morning remotely so that evenings could be spent walking in the woods and hoping either a sign would fall out of the sky or a huge branch would.

Instead he got a nice wallop in Shannon’s clean, clipped handwriting. He was stuck again, not knowing what this sign meant, but he knew it was a sign of some sort or another.

Stuck. He kept getting stuck. Stuck in a relationship he wasn’t as dedicated to as he wanted to be, stuck in a job he was good at but not passionate for, now stuck on this mountain because it was the only place he felt safe.

“You got sticky shoes, son.”

Poppa Gerald had arrived for their summer stay a week before Mo-ma, the matriarch of the Keepers clan, joined them. His text a few days earlier had said he was coming up early make sure the place was still suitable for his aging wife, but Matthew wasn’t fooled.

“Sticky shoes?” Was this more of that aged wisdom? “You want me to head west and buy some flipflops, or go barefoot for a while?”

“Maybe,” another cigarette was dancing between wrinkled lips, “You ever try it?”

Matthew was pretty sure this was some of that nonsense.

“I don’t know.”

Poppa Gerald nodded, as if he’d been given the correct answer instead of a mumbled attempt to leave the conversation.

“There’s a lot you seem to not know.” The sting was sharp, but a little wink followed it to soften the blow. “I could tell you that if you go barefoot, you have a higher chance of stepping on something sharp, but you also have the chance to build up some calluses. To feel the real earth under your feet, feel some movement- to get unstuck. But what I really mean boy, is that if you don’t start taking your boots off at the door instead of getting mud across my floor, your welcome is gonna wear out.”

“Oh Poppa, I’m sorry, I-”

“Nah, nah,” the old man coughed or laughed, it was unclear, “You’re alright. But I will say this- while I go heat up one of your little frozen pizzas, why don’t you go walk to the stream and put your feet in.”

It was not a suggestion.

Poppa Gerald began shuffling off to the kitchen, “then tomorrow we’ll mop so your mo-ma doesn’t find out.”

Matthew had never argued with the retired army engineer and starting now seemed foolish. So he set down his beer, slipped off his boots, and left the house by the back porch.

He started with his evening usual path, down the slight slope of the property and off to the left. This is the same walk his family had taken for decades. He remembered holding onto dog leashes in the mornings and his mother’s hand in the evenings, being called after to be careful as he chased cicadas and fireflies.

It was not lost on him that he had no hand to hold as dusk once again settled on the mountain.

But he got into the rhythm of trail walking easily. It was in his bones now. The little crumble crunch of leaves against gravel, the constant adjustment of earth. Enough feet, those of humans and deer and raccoons and foxes and every other little creature, had walked this path to make it smooth under his naked toes.

Before the large red maple marking his way right, back up the other side of the mountain, he took the left towards the water. The spring had been a chilly one, with summer not yet sneaking into the air. It left this path less worn-in than it was in the hotter weeks. Later in the season it would be re-tamed by small exploring footprints, and larger strolling ones. The ragged edges would be smoothed over with each passing adventurer.

So Matthew was not surprised to find low handing branches, as well as a few pointy twigs, loose pine-cones, and spiders angry at the disruption. When an acorn top lodged itself in the soft curve of Matthew’s left foot while he dodged a web hanging at eye-level, he wondered who was more insane: his grandfather’s metaphor-driven instructions, or himself for following them near nightfall. Barefoot in the unkempt woods. His mother would have a fit and demand he get a fresh tetanus shot.

But when he hit the soft mud and larger stones that signaled the stream was near, he let that thought go. He’d done as told because for months he hadn’t had an idea of his own. Better a crazy old man’s than nothing.

He nearly trip over a large root when he first heard the babbling song of the stream. For some reason, it shocked him. Such a simple, easy sound, and it triggered so many feelings within him. Matthew was nostalgic for the boy that pushed his sister into these shallow waters and danced across the rocks with his cousins. He felt the awe natural waterways always stilled him with. He felt a little guilt for betraying the easygoing spot by filling it with all his worries. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t visited it earlier. He should go, and leave this place to its innocence.

But instead of running this time, he sat down in the gritty sand. He loved this stuff far more than the powdery kind at beaches. This had more character, he felt, more color. With a little bit of the earth’s chill seeping into his shorts, he stuck his feet in the stream and gasped.

It was indeed not summer yet. He forced his feet to stay in the moving water, waited for them to adjust to the temperature even a bit.

Blue. Crystal blue is the color of this feeling, he thought. Amazing.

So he sat. And he listened. There was the laughter of water slapping against the sand. A tiny breeze moving the ferns of the undergrowth. A nearby squirrel screamed that someone was too close to its branch. A mourning dove romanced the last rays of day. A smile came across his face when a family of minnows- or are those tadpoles? inspected his toes for snacks before continuing on their way.

And he felt the smile he carried. Really felt it. Allowed it to stretch his cheeks and open his eyes. He sighed, then sighed again to hear the sound of it against the backdrop of the woods. Finally, as the night sky began to take over the sunset, he shook off the biggest droplets from his toes and started the walk back. He liked the idea of feeling how long the sand on his heels would hold on. Back to the main path? All the way up to the top of the mountain? Would he have to wipe his feet at the door or would everything have shaken free?

He didn’t have any more answers than when he’d left the house. But damn, he felt better. And that was enough for now.

The Word

Voyage (noun): A long journey involving travel by sea or in space. (verb): Go on a long journey, typically by sea or in space.

WELL, poor ol’ Matthew. Or not? I mean he did run off on his bride. But he seems to feel pretty bad for it. And maybe it was the best choice for everyone? I’m not sure. But that’s okay, to not be sure.

Have you ever heard those old stories of sailing? Sailors, pirates, passengers, Naval captains- they used to have to take off into the sea without a GPS, without flash-dried food, without any of that. The sea was so powerful they worshiped her and her unpredictable moods. Even now when we part from one another, a phrase to shout is “smooth sailing!” because it was such a hope, and never a guarantee. Basically, “I hope everything goes well, especially the parts you have zero control over!”

We’re always told “it’s about the journey, not the destination” and I hope that’s true. I’m often like Matthew: searching for answers, but not quite finding them. Needing a sign, but receiving a rest instead. It’s hard to be thankful for that, but I think we need to at least be more aware. The voyage is long, and sometimes hard, but it’s learning to walk on the rocky ground, how to respond to a sudden storm and choppy waves, that will get us where we’re going. And if we find a little place to rest, where we can forget the questions for just a moment, I think we’re that much closer to the answers.

Smooth sailing, my lovely readers.

The Story

She couldn’t believe it, a message in a bottle! When do those ever actually happen?

Her sketchers sinking into the wet earth, she crouched to get a better look at the glass voyager. When she determined it wasn’t carrying any stinging passengers or slimy gook, she went to pick it up. Carefully she tugged the bottle, scratched and scored from its travels, from the sand.

With it free, she looked around. Were there any little kids or lonely hearts around who had maybe just thrown this in and the tide rudely brought it back? But no, she was alone as usual on her 5am run along the dunes. Daufuskie Island worked long into the night, but did not rise until the sun had settled nice and high.

Tara had not always been an early riser, but something about having the waves and stars to herself made her move the long runs of her training schedule to match the first ebb of the morning. And now, mysterious find in hand, she was glad she did.

She peered out towards Savannah, then back to Hilton Head. This bottle could have come from one of the island’s neighbors. She tried to subdue her excitement with this thought. But the bottle had that old-timey shape, and the amber hue she’d seen in museums, so the subduing was not very successful.

The rest of her miles forgotten, she plopped onto the sand and unlaced her shoes. Moments like these required comfort and concentration. If time really worked circular as her sister suspected, she sent a wish that young single-digit mermaid-obsessed Tara knew they’d find something special like this one day.

She paused Lizzo’s ‘Truth Hurts’ on her phone, pulled the headphones from her ears. Of course she had to take a picture at each step. Before popping the cork, after the cork, pulling the paper out, etc. However, the after-the-cork shot would have to wait, because it was stuck. Very stuck. Tara had fought with many a cork before, but that was when rescuing wine from a bottle, so there were usually tools around.

Instead of the grand POP, there was a chipping away of cork that would’ve been embarrassing if anyone was around to see. Then a hideous smell, because it turned out a tiny crab had been the unfortunate companion to the encased paper. This was not the cute moment she imagined happening in Hallmark movies.

Still, she was in. Time to see what magical, beautiful words had been waiting for years to be heard.

October 1828

Timothy, you utter louse. I hope to God this letter finds you ill, sunburnt, and dying painfully.

Well then. Tara sighed, not a damn thing like the Hallmark movies, then.

You think leaving me on this Godforsaken patch of sea spit is going to keep you safe from my wrath? Ha! When my father sees I did not return, he’ll make the correct assumption that I went off with a dirty pirate, and guess what? He will know exactly which one too.

That’s right. You told me not to leave a note,  but I did. It did not occur to me then such an instruction was so you would not leave a trail. I thought it was for a more muskateering reason- perhaps not to further break my mother’s heart, or to give us enough time to escape before they knew in which direction to search.

But my heart was young just moments ago, so I did leave a note. I told my mother who had stolen my heart. I wished my sister would find someone who filled them in the same way you did me. I prayed my father and brothers would find a way to forgive us both.

Now I wish all the opposite. You did indeed steal my heart, but instead of fulfilling promises, I received empty oaths. I pray the men of our family hunt you to the ends of the earth. And whether it is for my reputation, or anger at the alliance potential of my marriage lost, I do care not. Whatever puts your blood on the end of their sword, or your last breath on their bullet, satisfies me. 

“Oh dear Lord,” Tara looked up from the yellow, cracking page. This was a far cry from what she’d imagined. She reached out into the wind and tried to pull back her wish. Eight-year-old Tara did not need to know about this disappointment any sooner than necessary. She hoped she caught it in time, or even better, that her sister was just a crazy hippy and time was liner after all.

And you know what? Lord Walton had two horse stables and more hair on his chest than you could dream of. 

Drown slowly, you pimpled liar. 

Sincerely, Everlyn Anne Bilonton of the English Bilontons

“Well.” Tara looked around, hoping there was someone she could throw her hands up with.

“Well then.” She rolled the paper back up, tapped it back into its glass envelope. Part of her wanted to throw it back in the ocean as punishment for disappointing her. Another part wanted to research the Bilonton family and see if Everlyn got the revenge she sought. A third part of her was just angry that she’d sat down to read instead of finishing her run. She’d been at a good pace, and this angry letter put her in too foul a mood to start again.

So she shuffled back to her apartment, left her sandy shoes on the porch.

The house smelled like coffee, which meant Caitlin was up and cooking breakfast, thank God. As Tara climbed the short steps to the kitchen landing, she heard the soft sizzle of what would be sausages, and hopefully toast to go with it.

Tara wrapped her arms around her short girlfriend at the stove, snuggled her sweaty face into the curve of Caitlin’s neck.

“Good run?”

Tara shook her head.

“Find anything good?”

Tara often brought Caitlin pretty shells from the beach, or a sea fossil, anything interesting that said “thought of you.” But now she just shot a glare at the bottle on the table. It waited there for explanation, research. Its anger made her angry. She knew the childish disappointment in her chest was ridiculous, but this was just further confirmation that she was no magical being in a fairytale, and those reminders sting humans, no matter how old they get.

“No,” Tara kissed Catilin’s cheek and started toward the shower, “nothing good, not a damn thing.”

The Word

Disillusioned (adjective): Disappointed in someone or something that one discovers to be less good than one had believed.

It shouldn’t surprise you that I’m a big dreamer! I have the big dreams (writing an award winning, acclaim achieving novel), and the little dreams (holding an owl), and all those little etherial ones that come and go when we are in the right place at the right time.

One of those dream-places for me is the beach at dawn or dusk. When my brothers and I were kids, my parents took us out to the shore after a thunderstorm and had us stomp really hard on the sand. It would light up, like a galaxy under our feet! They told us some mumbo jumbo about static from lightening interacting with bacteria in the water, but I knew the truth: tiny, magical, sea creatures. Friends with mermaids, probably.

Growing up kinda sucks. I don’t mean the getting taller and older part (the taller part has yet to happen for me, though). I’m fine with having an apartment and my own debit card. It’s the knowing enough to explain the world around me I’m not so found of. It turns out stars are huge bags of gas far away, and if we can see them, they’re already dying. Doesn’t that suck? I liked it better when Timon said they’re fireflies that got stuck up there.

Though I’ve grown to believe in the interesting properties of both lightening and bacteria, I still find myself in dream-places. These can be the middle of the woods on a warm day, or the top of a mountain you’re familiar with. Sometimes it’s a new overlook of a field, or a breeze in a quiet place, or a bridge anywhere, anytime, ever. And in those moments, those perfect spots, magical sea creatures seem real again. Heaven feels a little closer. Pocahontas seems more right about everything.

What are your dream-places?  I’d like to hear about them!

And I hope you visit one soon, sweet reader. Good night!

Hello lovely readers! I realized I’d written quite a few grim stories in a row so I thought I would do a short little bright-ner. Look at you lucky folks! A story AND a glimpse into my poetic side! I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I had the very esteemed Nikki Giovanni once call my poetry  “Nice! Good draft. But… not your focus, right? Right? Great, yeah that’s good.”

The Poem

Your gloom is but my sunrise!

Your dreams when I finally wake.

And when the sun has fallen,

Your treasure I hap’ly take!

Don’t bother trying to hide it,

But also, don’t you fret!

You won’t miss what I’m taking

And I’ll never owe you debt.

Thieving’s what I’m born for,

Stealing is my game,

And if you ventured with me,

I’m sure you’d feel the same!

In the nursery I was raised

But in the wild, built my trade

While you were sunshine walking,

Within the night I played!

So head to bed and eyes closed tight,

And fear not the bumps and hoots.

It’s just me and my fellows

gathering recruits!

We’ll try to keep it quiet,

and promise to be quick,

to gather all the yummies,

to chomp and bite and lick.

So before you say your prayers

and wishes off on stars

leave out your trash and scraps

so that the feast is ours!

The Word

Nelipot (noun): Someone who walks around barefoot

Can you tell I once taught little kids?

Our happy little narrator 🙂

The Story

She is gorgeous.

This moldable creature, with the coliseum in the back landscape, her in the forward right-third. The setting sun at that delicious moment of movement between red and pink where it creates a strange bloody orange. It is perfection.

So it is  understandable that I must save this perfect instance.

It is, in fact, beyond necessary for me to capture the moment. I am an artist.  What if the fates have deemed this the very last perfect moment, and I the one blessed to convey the gift to those not present? That is what an artist must do, it is our curse and calling: We freeze forever that which a second moment may destroy. This one will not be lost, no not from me nor from any other. My fans will need to see it. The world will need to see it. Generations beyond my great-great-grandniece will desperately need to see it.

So I am doing an obligation by creating the art. No, a duty.  A charge beyond self. It is the art born within me that is commitment bound to still this moment for the future.

Which means…

Which means, really, that whatever I do to still the moment is okay- is called for. It is appropriate.

So of course I will be missing the dinner with my family this evening. That is a duty I have no problem shirking. And with little guilt, as all layers should be thrown off to throw my strength into carrying the burden of my work. They know whenever I am missing, I’m found at the studio. The should know better than to interrupt my work, but since they do not know such things, plebeians, I leave a note outside the studio door.

Artist at work. Do not disturb, even for emergency.

It will not keep them out forever, but it will deter them for at least a few days. If pattern holds, my aging mother will leave bread and cheese, maybe a little fruit, wrapped at the door. If this arrives upon the third day, I eat it. If it shows up on the first or second, I let it rot so that she can come back and see what I think about her trying to rush my process.

I must stop. I cannot let worries nor explanation get in the way of capturing the divinity of woman and sunset.

A few tools are always with me for instant recovery of momentary art. I sketch quickly, label angles, as well as short hand describe the way the sunset hits every inch of her. With this done, I grab everything I need for recreation and dash to my studio. The faster I can put clay and plaster to work, the more real the piece will be. Any artist worth his paintbrush knows the best tools are a virgin canvas and a fresh mind’s view.

If I work sufficiently quick and thorough, I will have both.

My contemporaries are creating carvings from stone. They embody talent, but not perfection. I crave perfection. The muse of true wisdom demands it. Their creatures have abs too taught, curves far too sleek, and cheeks plumped from childhood on adult shoulders. It never makes any sense. Perfection is truth. It is each callus expressed upon the fingertips, each dip in the hip pronounced. You cannot take that from stone that already is, you must build from the ground up, just as Prometheus did- from clay.

I start with the mouth. It is where sound and air begin, so it should be where I start as well. Some of our faith belief it is where the soul enters and exists. I’m not sure if I agree with that, but I understand the notion each time my thumb shapes the swell of her lower lip.

It is a struggle, but I push the clay into shape. Plaster catches every flaw in the molding, so I take my time in these next moments. The clay has be smoothed against the collarbone, the strong undermuscle of the arm, the bridge on the top of each thigh, and even each pock mark across the back. I wonder where these were from. A healed illness? Scars from a punishment in youth? I cannot know these answers, but I do know the way the sun’s last reach etched a tiny shadow across each of these markings. Still shifting the pasted earth, I imagine each different shade of stained plaster I will need to echo these small shadows. Hands conducting across muscle and clay, mind dancing through shades of shade, this is ecstasy. This is true ambrosia coursing through the veins.

I have been lifted through the veil of limitation into the lofts of immortal artistry. I am floating above my creation, above the limits of time and light. Above the law, above the rules of modern tradition!

And the sacrifice makes it all the more true, all the more divine.

Unfortunately, she will not be missed. My sculpture will be more valued than she ever was. The shame about this era is the most beautiful women are of the lower class. It takes not caring about one’s appearance to achieve the muscle tone, the natural glow, the loose casualty, tranquil zen of hard work. That of a goddess. It’s a shame, but one that works in my favor.

She is gorgeous. And always will be.

The Word

Serene (adjective): 1. Calm, peaceful, and untroubled; tranquil. 2. Used as a term of respect for members of some European royal families. (noun) An expanse of clear sky or calm sea.

I almost didn’t use Serene. It’s one of those more common words that gets to wear a flower crown as if it were special. I can hear someone in paperback book pausing at the patio edge of a rented mountain house saying “Isn’t it just so… serene?” This is the very moment a studio exec decides to buy the movie rights, and about the same time I want to barf.

But flower-crown words deserve some of their spotlight. They cause a casual left from the mildly mundane, and those words are special too. They have to be given their full volume, their full credit for either being a fancy word amongst casual speech or visa versa. Yes I think I’ve talked myself back into it, I like those kind of words very much indeed.

A note on myself,* I’m not quite confident in my ability to ride that line of unreliable narrator, so if you’d like an explanation to the above story, here’s a hint: There was a murder.** 

And if you enjoyed this piece, please check out a similar narration practice I did in Today I am Warden! Thank you, and good night!

*HA! This whole blog is basically a note on myself, so that’s a bit redundant.

**Thank goodness that is not what the actual Greek and Roman sculptors did, right? Haha …right?

The Story

Everything I’d read, everything I’d seen, said that the first one would be the hardest.

And if that were true, this was going to be easiest job I’d ever had! That was a swish, a homer, and a cakewalk all in one!

But they were wrong. Or liars. Which you think is worse really depends on how many times you’ve been screwed over.

I myself have been screwed over many times, but that comes with the territory of the circles I run in. They’re mostly good people. It’s just that criminals and thieves are used to lying and sometimes they can’t help it when stabbing someone in the back will make their life minimally better.

So back to killing people.

Your first one is actually pretty easy. There’s so much emotion pumping through you, and in my case a WHOLE lotta drugs pumping through them, that after the first couple hits your body thinks it’s defending itself and goes into fight or flight response. That gets the adrenaline going on full speed and your extremities lose all feeling, so you don’t even notice the knuckles in your left hand have turned to gravel until the next morning.

And I only noticed at that point because I tried to slap my roommate for barging into my room at 6am, just a couple hours after I’d finally landed in bed. He said it was worth it to watch me pretend not to cry while he fetched some ice and duct tape.

He’s a mole at a couple banks for the mob so he doesn’t have to work nights like some of us. He had an in for the job because his uncle shared a cell with on of the Family’s middle-men for a few years. Privileged ass.

Those of us moving up the ladder in a more legitimate fashion should be allowed to sleep  through the first several hours of daylight, in my personal opinion. Of course, my annoying little roomie got a bit more respectful of my sleeping hours when my third kill was to save his stupid butt. Well I’ll be honest, it wasn’t just for Ronnie the Roommate. I was happy for my name to be dropped in the monthly Family meeting when they discussed why the bartender Ronnie slept with and drunkenly admitted his intel to wasn’t a problem anymore. After that, I started being allowed to sleep until noon.

Oh the second? The second was kinda on accident. I was supposed to just get the guy to talk. But there was a miscommunication on my end, and luckily the ladies who put the order in didn’t mind too much. In fact, they became one of my regular customers. Fine group of gals- a little weird, an unusual amount of sweaters that have cats wearing sunglasses on them, but they always say thank you, and the check always clears.

Yes of course I use checks. What kind of assassin is dumb enough to work in cash anymore? This isn’t the 1800s, those things can get marked and scanned and all sorts of crap. Working in overalls but carrying 50s and 100s is not a good look. I’d just as soon put a sign above my head reading “THIS PERSON DOES BAD THINGS”. No no, those sweet dumb-dumbs get jailed within the week. Instead, you learn to adapt to modern times. And after the recessions, nobody minds a simple self-employed handyman putting a check into his account after doing a little pest control. Hammering out a few issues for a homeowner. That sort of thing.

What was my point again?

Right, riiiiight, killing people.

So it actually gets harder over time, rather than easier. All those Oscar winning crime movies that show a sad young person losing themselves in the hungry world of corruption are, as one my regulars call it, dog shit.

You don’t really lose yourself. You get bored. Go ahead and get over how crass that was, because it’s true. There are only so many ways to kill a person, and when it’s not ‘a crime of passion’ you follow the rules you set for yourself back around the sixth or seventh time you had to burn your outfit afterward.

These rules are as follows:

1. Lure the target to a place where blood makes sense. It’s not worth cleaning up afterwards. If someone dies that people care about, the cops are gonna look at their usual haunts, and if any of those are too clean, well, you get the point.
   • No, this is not a shipyard, you movie-going maniac. This is a back alley that gangs frequent, or a dumpster. Libraries behind dirty middle schools, that kinda thing.
2. Never poison. People have allergies, or sometimes decide to not finish their drink, etc. It’s ridiculous the amount of things that can go wrong in a poisoning. I tried it just once, ending up having to beat the head in ’cause the douche decided to “watch his calories” and not go for the second egg roll, which had my stuff in it.
3. Wear clothes that you would wear anywhere. Another misconception- if you’re wearing clothes that you’re clearly ready to throw out, or were maybe wearing the last time someone disappeared, you’ve made yourself a suspect. As a fake handyman, my entire wardrobe is pretty casual, but I still make sure to rotate the paint-stained t-shirts as usual, no matter the night’s duties.

That’s it. That’s the job. Being a reasonable human being with a task. You don’t even have to be that strong, you just have to not be an idiot. Well, and be okay with breaking the law as well as ending people’s lives.

But really, what job isn’t?

The Word

Profession (noun): 1. A paid occupation, especially one that involves prolonged training and a formal qualification. 2. An act of declaring that one has a particular feeling or quality, especially when this is not the case.

The Story

The evening was still, the type of summer-still that makes lonely hearts roll out of bed and stand on the porch in their pajamas. They look up into the stars, standing in solitude, unaware that by doing so, they’ve made themselves part of humanity’s largest association.

But that wouldn’t do for me tonight. Sometimes it was enough, but not now.

“For an English teacher, you sure don’t use a lot of words.”

“Why don’t you wait ’til the blood rushes back to my head for me to be poetic?”

It was nice. He was nice. He was warm.

That’s even more than I asked for earlier that night at the bar across from my favorite coffee shop. He’d been leaning over a lanky blond with legs longer than my student debt loan. But he was my type and smiled easy, so I chugged the rest of my Long Island Ice Tea and put a hand on his shoulder, “Look hun, she’s a 9 and a maybe. I’m an 8.5 and a sure thing. Your place or mine?”

It wasn’t anything like the words that normally come out of my mouth. But when you have anxiety as badly as I do, you’re willing to commit just about any social crime to either be alone all the time or never be alone ever even a tiny bit. I am the latter, and when my roommate took off to  Montreal to visit her girlfriend this weekend, I knew I needed a solution. Quick.

Usually I would call Geoff to meet me for mini-golf, but he had found his most recent soulmate so I was doing my best not to barge in on the honeymoon period. School had started back for MacKenzie so she was too far away, and my sisters have always had a limit of how much of me they can handle at a time (this is mutual).

So there I was in the apartment hyperventilating on the kitchen floor when the most brilliant idea I have ever had came to me: I was going to fuck a stranger.

No really, it’s the greatest plan: To find a stranger to fuck, you have to go to a bar. To be at a bar, you need to hold a drink. When you hold a drink, you look weird if you don’t sip it. When you sip alcohol, you get a bit tipsy, and don’t hyperventilate because that’s how biology works. When you don’t hyperventilate, and with the assistance of said alcohol, you can talk to strangers. Strangers at bars want sex. Sex means touching. Touching keeps the anxiety away. And who knows- the stranger could be a cuddler and then you’re golden for a night’s sleep without thinking your world is imploding or forgetting how to breathe properly. Brilliant plan.

And I had totally nailed it. With 9/10ths of the plan complete, I was feeling pretty brilliant myself.

“How about now?”

“For a lawyer, you talk an awful lot.”

“I do litigation.”

“Of course you do.”

These are the things I knew about him:

• His name was Chad (ew)
• He was an English teacher for high school students (honorable)
• There was a scar along the front of his left shoulder that looked vaguely like the state of Tennessee (cute)

These are the things he knew about me:

• My name is Terra (lie)
• I am a criminal lawyer (half-lie, patent attorney)
• I have exactly 23 freckles (oddly true)
• I have severe anxiety (too true)

Yeah, I told him about the anxiety. Why? Because one night stands looooove freaks! The more horrifying backstory, the better. Freaks are weird, we do weird things, and we make for great stories at hangover-brunch the next morning. Bonus: he probably knows he won’t have to deal with too many repercussions because seriously, who is named Chad anymore? We are both liars, clearly, and won’t see each other ever again. A flawless deception.

“So, Terra The Litigator, what valiant fight for those wrongly accused have you fought?”

I opened my eyes against the chest where I had curled up. Peaking through my smudged mascara to see if he was joking, I found he was not. Apparently we would do this small talk thing.

“Ummm, I’m not supposed to talk about cases.”

“I see. So what do you really do for a living?”

Damn. Maybe I’m not the slinky lady of the night I thought I was.

“I am a lawyer…” I said to the Tennessee scar.

“Mmhhmm. What kind?”

“Copyright. I love it.”

“Then why say criminal?”

“It sounded sexier… in my head.”

“You think being surrounded by dirty murders is sexier than being surrounded by books and notaries? You said this to an English teacher?”

Ah, truths and lies between strangers who will part happily. Nothing like it.

“So… you’re actually an English teacher?”

“I feel like you’re new at this. Should we start over?”

He sat up on his elbow, causing me to roll down into his lap. My pulse started to quicken, but I refused to give up on the last bits of anxiety-relief an orgasm brings, so I stayed there.

“I’m Chad.” He held out his hand.

I sat up straight then. “Your REAL name is Chad?!”

He threw his head back laughing, and I noticed how nice the auburn trail of eleven-oclock-shadow looked parading down his chin. When he got his breath back, he looked at me with eyes much brighter than a few hours ago. Apparently my accidental hilarity was quite sobering against a couple whiskey sours.

“That is a first! Why would I give you a fake na- wait.”

Damn. Damn damn damn what a stupid idea. To sleep with a complete stranger! Just to get rid of anxiety! I should have just gotten drunk and passed out in the middle of a panic attack like a responsible adult! What had I done?? Was I CRAZY?

“Soooo Terra my dear,” he chortled, “Or should I say….?”

I bit my bottom lip. Not in a cute way; in a shit I’m caught and it’s not cute at all way.

“…Audrey.”

“Well, it has some of the same letters.”

“Yes… yes it does.”

And then he wrapped his arms around me. I squealed when he fell back against his pillows, pulling me down with him. Was this man going to crush me for my lies? Who would know where to look for me? I don’t normally do this- no one will even know to check with the local bartenders! I’d left none of the clues behind that’d I’d seen on Law & Order and my roommate was going to put that on my tombstone: Watched too much daytime TV for us to not know what happened. Loser.

But then instead of strangling the air from my lungs, he tucked me into the curve of his shoulder, and with his free arm clicked off the bed side lamp.

“I like Audrey better,” he mumbled into my hair.

“Thank you. Me too.”

“Why tell a lie to someone you probably won’t see again?”

“I saw it differently.”

He chortled again, “Clearly.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m looking forward to telling my friends about the crazy hot lawyer I slept with.”

“See- that I was right about that part.”

His breathing slowed. Was he falling asleep? Was this conversation over? No no- I have to fall asleep first or this doesn’t work. I bucked my hip against him, scrounging up the last of my sexy confidence.

“Yes, Terra-Audrey?”

“I’m not done with you,” I purred.

“Yes you are. You’re trying to seduce me through yawns.”

“Am not.”

“You’re very tired. And you want to rest up for morning sex, so don’t sneak your clothes on and leave before I wake up. Would you like a really boring story about my students?”

I stared at him through the dark. His eyes were closed, one hand wrapped protectively around my waist and the other cradling the back of his head casually.

“Yes, actually. I would love that.”

“Alright. So there’s this kid who has trouble with Greek mythology. Recently I tried to get him hooked on the Hunter but he never brings his book so I sent him to the library and he said she wasn’t in any of those books and so I made him do all of the history stories that led to her quote unquote ‘birth’, and you know with all the legends that covers. So first there’s the…”

Out like a light. I was right- a brilliant plan.

The Word

P.S. Doing my best to make stand alone-stories again, but if this gal sounded a little familiar, please check out Today I am Passion 😉

*“Tomorrow, your job is to change the world into a better place. Today, my job is to see that everyone gets there.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky

“A moment’s beginning ends in a moment”
― Munia Khan

“It was a delightful visit;—perfect in being much too short.” —Jane Austen

“Be sincere, Be brief, Be seated.” —Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Hello lovely reader! If you're new around here, you will probably want to read Today I am Yawn and Today I am Atonement before this installment for The Called. Or enjoy any of the stand-alone stories The Quilled Sister has to offer! Thank you!

The Story

This is a terrible plan. I know it’s a terrible plan, but at the same time, I just… don’t care.

When Captain ordered me to be part of Anise’s pity party, I voiced my disapproval and walked back to join McKoi at his watch post. We’ve all seen shit by this point, there’s no reason to let yourself drown in it like the last rat off a boat.

But Teak found me. She always does. I can hide from genetically-enhanced bat radar but not from Teak.

“Come on, Darluth. You know we all have to take part of the load.”

I turned my back to her, catering to the emotionally weak does not count as part of the load.

She sighed behind me.

“McKoi, could you?” I heard her grumble.

“Yes, Sergeant.” McKoi saluted her, gave me the cool it dude look, and returned to camp. Coward.

When the sound of McKoi’s footsteps had retreated far enough away, I felt Teak’s lean arms incircle my waist, her forehead nuzzle between my shoulder blades. Even though it was warm and I liked it, I shook her off.

“You can’t cuddle me into thinking it’s okay to baby Private Tillum.”

“I could order you to, though. Which would be kinda hot from my end.”

“Not from mine.”

She moved toward me again, slipping her hands in my pockets to intertwine our fingers, “I could order you to pretend you thought it was hot.”

I allowed a small smirk. “I would appreciate if you didn’t.”

But she was right. She could order me to do anything, and because of rank and a million other reasons, I’d have to do what she said. Yet she didn’t. Sergeant Teak was not the ordering type. She just had this way of being right that made it easier to agree, rather than look like a fool in front of her later.

And  that’s why I am here. In the middle of this terrible plan that is basically useless. If we were still mortal, it might be nice to sit at a bar with a martini every couple of weeks, but alcohol burns off too quickly before it can do anything in bodies built for battles along the time/space continuum.

Blessedly built the ugly wizard says.

I do like the barkeeps. I won’t admit this to Teak or anyone else, but I do get mildly entertained watching the watchers. It’s been true throughout history- barkeeps see everything. Everyone talks to them, from the most powerful sultans, down to this nonsense cat lady next to me tonight. And they’ve got the best view of humanity too, in my opinion. People are raw when they sit against a bar. They don’t feel like they’re facing another person, just their drink. So the words and faces that flow out of them for the barkeeps to see are unfiltered not just by intoxication, but by some odd agreement of conversation I’ve yet to experience anywhere else. It’s a handy way to get secrets out of people, and I’ve used it many times myself.

It’s a busy Saturday night at The Swan, so it’s the managing barkeep and her little protege- Caroline and Neal. I wonder if either one of them realize she’s training him to take over. She’s on to bigger things, the smell of success wafts off her like an expensive gin wafts off the bachelorettes waddling out of here. Teak would say it’s a shame, because the girl seems happy here. But I’ve never seen happiness as a reason to hold oneself back from potential.

Of course worthless assignments hold oneself back from potential all the time. Clearly.

There is one interesting little being here. The rest of the bar gossips about her because she just sits at the bar staring at her drink. But I think it’s more interesting that she’s some sort of immortal.

I know she’s not one of us, we entered this world together and are able to sense each other’s movements. But she’s powerful and wild. I do wonder what she’s doing here, sitting with a bunch of useless people, staring, and then sneaking out the back door when she thinks no one sees.

But I do. I see everything. It’s my specialty.

So of course I notice when my target enters The Swan. But everyone does, she’s sort of a celebrity.

Pepper Tillum Rivkin. Of the Northeastern Tillums, who migrated from Egypt several centuries ago for unknown reasons. She married Clark Jameson Rivkin at 27, a hotel founder on the way to big money.  That’s when we entered, screwed everything up, activated Private Anise’s guilt, who then proceeded to insert herself unnecessarily into a normal’s life, and now I’m stuck here. Wasting a perfectly good winter night when the Kishi will be in hibernation and I could be stealing all the good pome-berries that grow in their fields. Teak loves when I make little hand pies with them.

But I’m here instead. For no reason, as it’s the same thing every time. The target walks in like the head of a parade, all these little plebeians bask in her social radiance, and then she sits at the biggest curve of the bar, holding court and passing out kernels of advice as if it was gold thread straight from her asshole. After everyone has admired her glorious wisdom, she drops a humongous tip, and saunters back to what I imagine is a diamond encrusted cave.

Which is why I entertain myself by dropping my tip in the form of whatever last country I’ve visited. She tips for us both, and I have no reason for random foreign coins. Neal seems to be starting a collection, so I always make sure it’s him that’s nearby when I take off.

Oh lookie there, Target’s shaking it up tonight. We’re going to go bother immortal-lady. See I don’t know if I can respect a fellow immortal who can’t be bothered to shimmy off the humans. It would be so easy for her to put on an off-putting cloud like me- a tiny spell that makes me visible, but erases anyone’s desire to come near.

Pepper’s probably going to bore her with some nonsense about living truly or following your heart or investing while young, or whatever. Once she realizes the little immortal doesn’t want to impress her, she’ll prance back over here and continue her performance.

So I keep a third eye on her while I peruse the bar. Surely there’s something here that’ll keep me awake until I’m allowed to go back to camp.

There’s an Assistant Attorney General with his hand on the thigh of a newly wed, about to ruin his career because her husband is a lawyer for a publicity firm.

Across the bar is a groom getting married in a few days. He’s so in love with his bride, but trying to impress his friends, so he’ll say yes when they offer to take him to a strip club, but then he’ll hide in the corner. Teak would want to interfere, but I can see that he’ll make better friends after his marriage.

In the back room is a second date. It’s going terribly.

Next to me, mister regular John is on another first date. It’s going wonderfully but he’ll call the guy the wrong name and that’ll tank the whole relationship. He’ll bring in his soulmate a few weeks from now but won’t notice because he’s still too gun-shy from the mistake he’s about to make. Again, Teak would beg me to interfere. But that’s not what full-sight is for. It’s for seeing, not getting involved. It’s more about being able to read the whole big picture. Should I raze the entire Amazon Rainforest for the broken heart of a cane-toad? No. But that’s the whole philosophical debate Teak and I get into every time I see something she thinks should be fixed. God I wish this martini effected me.

aaaaand I lost her. I lost the Target. Can’t sense her anywhere. Shit.

The Word

Daedal (adjective): Skillful; ingenious. Cleverly intricate.

I think today’s word is pretty obviously tied to the story, which may be a first for me! I still think it’s an excellent word.

Sometimes when I write a little chapter for The Called, I feel like I’m discouraging new readers from becoming return-readers, because there’s so much they need to know before hand. On the same token, I really enjoy weaving everyone together. It’s interesting to build a world step by step, and have to match rules that were set in previous stories. There is probably a beautiful middle ground of creating stand-alones that still continue a chapter, but I’m aware I haven’t hit it yet. I’m going to continue to work towards it, but if anyone has a good idea for a step towards that goal, I’d be happy to hear it! As a new writer, I love hearing feedback, so if you have any feelings on this, hit me up via the Contact page!

The Story

People joke about it these days. Like oh she’s such a crazy cat lady. But it’s no joke. No ma’am.

This is serious. The Society of Cat Women have always held up rigorous traditions and rules. You can’t just one day become a Cat Lady! You have to earn that title.

I myself have held the title for over a decade, and when we vet newcomers, nothing has changed. No no. We are not like these ridiculous institutions that have lost their way. You think getting into an Ivy League is the same now as it once was? Or the Bohemian Club? I mean they recently gave an honorary membership to a rapper who doesn’t even have a grammy. Can you believe that?

And do not get me started on the Free Masons. They just let anybody in who wears a knife pin under their necktie these days. Shameful. Yet they wander around thinking they’re all that and a bag of catnip. A couple of documentaries get made about you, you get included in a best selling novel, and all the sudden you forget your roots?

Not so with the Cat Women. We’ve been around longer than any of them, and we have never abandoned our honor!

Sure, the Free Masons like to pretend they’ve been around since the Library of Alexandria. But who built the Library of Alexandria, hm? Oh that’s right, Ptolemy Lagides, a secret priest of Bast, the cat goddess of Egypt. It was a sanctuary for the society his wife remained dedicated to, hidden within a temple of knowledge. But the Templars couldn’t let us have one thing, could they? Once they had a few roman captains on their roster they burnt it down. Bunch of overgrown jocks those ones. Then they had the audacity to go back into hiding and pretend they started up a century later just to pillage cities and plant seeds for that whole witch-hunt nonsense against us. Oh look a lady with a cat and a sense of self, must burn her at the stake! They shook our numbers then, but we’ve never been ones to stay down.

Because we go all the way back to the first societies, you see. Our seal still holds the LV for the Leeu Vrou, or Lion Ladies, of the first tribes in Africa, who learned hunting and teamwork from the packs of lionesses and instead of taming as men did with wolves, became wild with the lions! Now THAT is what I call evolution!

Of course you know the society spread, fighting for women and cats everywhere. If our membership were not sealed, you’d find pharaohs, viking chiefestes, a certain golden queen perhaps, czarinas, suffragists, congresswomen, First Ladies, astronauts, teachers, and everything in between. It’s quite humbling to remember who you stand next to when you take the pledge.

But even though we have members in every corner of the world, we do not just accept anyone into our ranks willy-nilly. No, it takes a special gal to become a Cat Lady. You have to first establish yourself as an independent female, cannot be leaning on anyone for the ability to take care of either yourself or your feline familiar. There must be a clear bond between you and your creature, as well as a willingness to give up all there is in the name of the society, be it your human companion, your luxuries, or your life.

We get a bad rap because of those ridiculous old ditzes who horde poor creatures. They’re unkempt, both them and their household, and that is certainly not who we are. You can be a homebody surely, many of us are due to the intense amount of work, but you must always preen as if there were an audience. This is of course something we learned from the cats themselves, who no one has ever seen satisfied with a mediocre appearance. It is best to be prepared for any situation- whether that is an unexpected visitor, or a mission’s call to action.

Oop… pretend I didn’t say that last part.

Anyway, then you have the fakes. To me, they are worse than the ANAK Society when it comes to being just over the top and full of themselves. A bunch of peacocks really. They go to these shows and flaunt their poor pets for their good looks or quirky talents. Does that sound even remotely what our ancestors intended? Those t-shirts with the odd sayings “it’s not drinking alone if the cat is home!” or “my scottish-fold is smarter than your honor student!” just make me sick. They need to be plucked like feathers for an indoor-toy, I say.

Now I know this all sounds very strict, and it is, but that’s the best way to keep the true goals of a society at the forefront. We do, however, allow honorary membership, or companionship, to those who may not quite fit the bill but have done us a great service. These are kind, brilliant, people who understand what the Society of Cat Women do for the world, and want to aid even if they cannot be among the ranks.

These are greats such as Ptolemy Lagides, who I mentioned earlier. Also some craftsmen and businesspeople we have brought into the fold, who worked tirelessly to build secluded meeting places and shelters for us, or donate large funds to our cause. And others whose contributions may seem small but are extremely meaningful, like one of my neighbors actually. He’s a famous artist, a billionaire with his paintings in castles, yet he chooses to live in seclusion for the peace and quiet. Also, he takes care of me when I get home torn apart from a mission as well as makes the best damn gluten free muffins this side of the equator.

There’s also a president or two that has worked with his First Lady for us. I know what you’re thinking- why haven’t you installed a Cat Lady as President yet? Dear, everything has a time and place. You cannot rush greatness. You also cannot rush a society where the mascot sleeps twenty hours a day! HA! You’ve got to have a laugh, even in serious business.

But we do have a timetable for all sorts of takeovers- I mean, accomplishments, that include putting more Cat Ladies in charge throughout the world. And it’s not even for nonsense reasons like the Free Masons who just want to keep their little secrets hidden and spend literally billions of dollars keeping their most famous members from talking too much. No, we want what we have always wanted, since the very beginning:

A healthier and cleaner earth!

Equality for all whether they be cat ladies, dog persons, or even bird people!

World peace! (based on a complete overtake by the Society to ensure that such peace is maintained, of course)

And a sunbeam to lie in when the work is done.

The Word

Ailurophile (noun): A lover of cats

So first of all if there are any readers that hold membership in the above societies I have mocked in today’s story, please know this is fiction and I totes respect you and please don’t egg my house or like curse my family line or anything, k? Thanks!

And yes, I do have a coaster that says “it’s not drinking alone if the cat is home!” so know that when I mock, I mock myself too 🙂

You may have noticed I have done several of these one-sided conversations (like Today I am Unworldly and Today I am Warden). I really like studying how one person’s perspective can shape an entire world when they are uninterrupted. How would different events look from that very biased side of things? What actions would be good or bad based on this one speaker’s experience? If we have no one to rely on except this one person, what context do we have to fill in ourselves based on the givens? Sometimes this makes me the strange feeling of sonder* which can be cool and creepy all at the same time, so I really like looking into this. I know my voices for these types of writings is a weak spot, but since I love it, you’ll probably see it a lot because I want to improve. If you have any tips/tricks for improving at this, or want to boost my ego when I start to improve with these voicings, hit up that Contact page!

Oh also! If the artist neighbor sounds familiar, feel free to jump over and read Today I am Komorebi 🙂

*Yes this word is going to pop up soon! Hint hint!

The Story

“Phillip, take that ridiculous thing off.”

I unclipped the throat chakra crystal necklace and slipped it into my pocket.

“Thank you. We can’t have the customers thinking we are some sort of hippy grape commune.” She sent me a short smile and quickly returned to her files.

“Yes, Ms. J. Sorry about that.” Once I was facing the doorway to her office, I rolled my eyes.

“Oh don’t pout with me, love. You know how picky I am about our atmosphere.”

How does she do that?

“Of course, I know.” And when I looked at her, those hazel eyes smiled in a way that I could not pout with her at all.

Ms. J had always been particular about her winery, and she was right, I’d known since my first day that there would be a strict dress code.

That first day, she’d hired me twelve minutes into my interview, and began to show me around the space. She then began a long speech about the standards she held for each of her employees. To match the Tasting Room, all servers were to follow exact outfit restrictions: Clothing must be black, white, navy, or cerulean. No silver jewelry, only gold. No casual shoes- loafers or heels, period. No hats, no headbands. And of course, no “hippy” clothing (a definition that included anything Ms. J thought of as too colorful, casual, frayed, or unusual).

However, Ms. J made up for all the rules of the vineyard with good pay and consistent hours, so we didn’t complain often. Well there is Molly. She was always trying to sneak in wearing bright pink flats or a ti-dye hair bow.

Sometimes I would catch Molly before Ms. J saw her, but not always. Like this morning, when Molly came in with a dang florescent clip at the top of her ponytail.

“Molly! You kids are going to be the death of me! Get that thing off your head!”

“Ms. J, it’s just a splash of color!”

“It’s nonsense. We’re a classy place. Take it off or head home.”

Molly smirked, “Maybe I will head home then. Then you’ll be a server short on the solstice- you know that’s bad luck!”

Around the room, all servers instinctively took a step further away in any direction we could go.

Mrs. J turned slowly, her tight silver bun spinning to the back of her neck in a way that reminded me of a spooked owl.

“Solstice? Luck?” She began to stalk slowly to Molly, “You think that’s what built all that surrounds you?” The older woman stood mere inches from Molly’s nose, and not for the first time I realized Mrs. J was actually very tall. Her eyes were set in a glare a solid four inches above Molly’s own fearfuleyes.

“No, no ma’am.” If she could have moved, I imagine Molly would have been shivering. It was noticeably colder in the room.

“Good. Because it didn’t. I built this. My siblings poured their savings into my dream, and my broken back lifted it up from a dirt mound into one of the most premier vineyards on the East Coast. Does that sound like luck to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good.” Mrs. J leaned back, and it was like someone opened the shades! Light poured back into the room and everyone buzzed with relaxed breath.

I gestured Molly to come over, the managers kept a box of extra hair clips, socks, etc. hidden in one of the decorative barrels. But before she could reach me, Mrs. J had reached the office door, and turned on her heel again to face the room.

“Oh Molly?” She called.

Her body still aimed at me, Molly turned her head, “Yes ma’am?”

“Take the day off, dear,” Mrs. J purred, “I’m sure we can do without today, and I think you could use some air.”

Molly turned back to me, but I couldn’t meet her eye. It was one of the first Saturdays the heat from summer had broken, and the winery would be packed with people happy to leave huge tips. Mrs. J was making a point, and none of us were missing it.

And unfortunately for Molly, Mrs. J was right. We were busy as heck, and I don’t think I or the others paused for even a moment. The sound of corks popping was so constant it turned into a kind of music, pop pop ba-dop, pop pop ba-dop!

But when the end of day came, none of us were really that tired. All of the customers arrived in happy moods and became pleasantly buzzed through the afternoon and into the evening. We didn’t have to call a single cab to pick up someone who had gone too far, nor had to invite anyone to never come back! As we finished cleaning and split the tips, we all felt a little jived from the success in the cool evening air, so we decided to have a little party ourselves. Manager Leanne put a few bottles on her tab and led all the servers to the picnic area.

We were as loud as one of the bachelorette vans that comes by in the Spring as we paraded from the Tasting building to the picnic area. Still though, a sound pricked my ear and I walked past the parking lot. There was a car there with its lights on. Odd, as we’d been closed for a little over an hour, and we’d left Mrs. J typing away in her office, as usual.

“Hey, someone leave their lights on?”

A few of the closest heads turned to me, then to the car I was pointing towards.

After a chorus of “nope”s, I decided to investigate. If it was a patron waiting to sober up or something, they’d need a ride called.

“Commin’, Phillip?” Leanne called.

“Yeah yeah, just going to check on this!”

“Alrighty, careful you don’t miss all the Sangiovese!”

They all laughed. God we were nerds.

I made it across the gravel of the parking lot and saw there was indeed someone in the lit car. It was a little spooky to come up to someone alone in a dark parking lot, but I’d come this far, right? And surely a buzzed customer wasn’t a danger.

I rounded up the side of the car and knocked on the driver’s window, “You okay in there?”

Aaaaand I spooked the hell out of Molly.

“Oh my GOD, Phillip!” She jumped out of the car after a little shock wore off for us both, “I almost maced you!”

“Well, thank you for not doing that. What the hell are you doing here?”

She slumped against the car, “I was whining to my mom about Mrs. J and she told me to drive back here after we closed and apologize.”

“Oh well that’s smart. I’m sure Mrs. J wasn’t actually that mad. Just pop in and say sorry then come join us at the picnic tables- we’re celebrating a busy day.”

“God, lots of tips?”

My turn to smirk, “You don’t wanna know how well we did today.”

“Damn,” she straightened up and began shuffling towards the building, “Will you come with me?”

There was nothing I’d rather do less, and I think that was clear on my face.

“Pleeeease, Phillip? She can be so scary!”

“Only cause you push her buttons.”

“We can’t all be perfect little Phillip with his checkered bowtie.”

“Hey! Everyone loves my bowtie!” But I reluctantly followed her to the building. Leanne had left it unlocked in case any of us needed a bathroom run, and enough lights were on to make it Mrs. J’s office door.

That light was on too, but Mrs. J wasn’t there.

“Think she’s in the loo?”

I stared at Molly, “The loo?”

“The bathroom,” she rolled her eyes and laughed, “I’m working on being more posh for this place, ya know.”

So we waited a few minutes, but Mrs. J did not return.

“Maybe she took off.”

“No, I’m parked next to her,” Molly answered, “She has that GrapeLady license plate. We would have passed her coming in here if she left.”

“Well, I’m sure your apology can wait,” I started to pull Molly back towards the entrance, “lets go get some wine.”

“No no!” Molly pulled back, “what if she stews about it? She could decide you all don’t need me at all! I need to find her tonight.” She began stalking towards the barrel room.

It seemed like a terrible idea to go snooping around in the dark when we didn’t know where Mrs. J was and one of us was already in trouble, but I think I was still a little wired from the day.

As we trundled down the stairs I tried to remember where the light switch might be, but there was no need. The barrel room had a soft glow coming from the glass panes of the double doors. And… music?

Nope that was chanting, definitely chanting.

“Yeah Molly this is a terrible idea. It’s dark, there’s weird glowing, we’re just out of screaming-range from people we know. We are literally at the beginning of a horror movie right now, and I just don’t have time for that.”

But she was already kneeling by the side of the door and peaking through the glass, her eyes were huge with whatever she could see.

Oh yeah, we were for sure going to die.

“Shut up and come here.”

“Absolutely no-” She pulled my shirt so I was next to her, and therefore had to duck to not be seen through the door.

I figured if I was going to die, I’d at least have a good story to tell whoever’s waiting for me in heaven, so I chanced a glance myself.

Mrs. J was standing in the middle of the barrel room, in a long blue gown I had never seen before. It had little shimmers on it that reminded me of constellations, but that couldn’t be right, because that did not fit the beige-and-white dress code she held for herself.

And there were other people standing by her. Some of them had the same silver/blond tinge to their hair, and as one turned I recognized him as Mrs. J’s big brother who I’d met a few times before. He too was in a dark blue color, his a suit sky-blue with a scarf of little golden zigzags. The other figures were similarly dressed, and similarly shaped as the two of them, probably the other siblings that lived further away.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” Molly whispered.

“I don’ think I want to.”

But she did, she pushed the door open just slightly enough for the sound of hums and sighs to come rushing through.

When the sound stopped suddenly, I had to grab Molly’s arm so she didn’t let the door slam shut.

“Thank you all for coming again, on this beautiful solstice,” Mrs. J announced to her little circle, “You know how much more powerful this night is when we are all together, and the moon is ever so closer when I have you all near.”

There were little happy laughs as well as a few joyous, “here here!” in the small audience.

“As we begin tonight’s solstice ritual for the late harvest, and the blessings to lead us through winter, I’d like to offer you all a sip of sacrifice…” Mrs. J turned to a barrel on its end beside her. I realized her dark haired husband seemed to be attending it. He was dressed in much lighter clothing, like some sort of champagne silk. He dipped a clear carafe into the open barrel and offered it to her, red droplets hanging from his fingers.

Mrs. J nodded her thanks, and then poured the liquid into crystal gobblets for each of her siblings.

Molly breathed into my ear, “This is weird…”

“Shut up.” Yes, yes it was extremely weird. But I’d already given up my resignation to death and did not want to be caught there.

Mrs. J continued her speech, “Long ago, Demeter lost her daughter to the night, and froze the earth with her tears. Tonight, as she turns Summer to Fall, we honor her by consuming the blood of her enemy, and-”

Nope, nope, that was enough.

I grabbed Molly’s arm and flew back up the stairs, past the office, and didn’t even register leaving the building until I heard the gravel of the parking lot beneath my feet.

“Oh my GOD.”

“I know.”

“Phillip! Oh MY GOD.”

“I know.” But I didn’t. I couldn’t breathe. Fancy-pants-don’t-bring-hooplah-into-my-building-Mrs.-J was drinking blood to ask for a goddess’s blessing on the wine barrels.

“We have to tell someone!” Molly started moving to where our coworkers were shouting out some sort of card game at the tables.

I grabbed her arm again, “Absolutely not. We do not know what we saw.”

“We know exactly what we saw.”

“Nope. No we do not. We did not see a damn thing, Molly. We did not see a damn thing at all.”

She stared at me, I could feel her searching my face for an argument. “Why?”

“I think it’s safest. Mrs. J is filthy rich, and so is her whole family. I’m pretty sure her uncle is like a Duke somewhere in Europe and her husband is a lawyer. We would be walking into a minefield, and we don’t even know what we saw.”

“Fine,” Molly conceded, “we don’t know what we saw.”

“We don’t. Let’s just… lets just go join everyone. You can write Mrs. J an apology email.” A cool wind seemed to brush the sweat from my neck. It felt reassuring somehow, like the earth agreed with the choice of silence.

But I did know what we saw.

And I know what the chant was saying.

And I never forgot.

As I continued my employment for Mrs. J, I rose through the ranks of server to Head Server to Junior Manager, then finally to Manger. Mrs. J trusted me with larger and larger portions of the business, and when I graduated college, she offered me to become a junior partner.

“I’m getting old, love. I need someone to carry it on when me and mine are gone.”

So September 21st, my first solstice as a partner, Mrs. J asked me to stay behind as the servers closed the Tasting Room. She led me down into the back stairs, through the glass doors, to where her siblings and their spouses were lighting candles all around the Barrel Room.

She introduced me to her niece, “She’ll be joining the vineyard shortly, she’ll be part of your team.” Mrs. J explained.

Then the chanting. Which wasn’t really chanting. No, it was clear her brothers, just like they had all those years ago, had gotten into the wine a little earlier than everyone else. And if I heard right, were doing their best acapella version of The Kinks’ ‘You Really Got Me’, which in turn echoed through the large room in a way I imagine would spook a couple youngens sitting just outside the room…

One of the sisters happily welcomed me, giving me a flowing amethyst scarf to put over my collard shirt.

“There dear, now you look the part too!”

I nodded, thanking her, but I was nervous. I’d known the further I got in my career, the deeper into the lion’s den I went. But ever since that night, I’d needed to know more. And I loved this vineyard, I was good at it! If there was some sort of rich witch cult that made the grapes grow then damnit I wanted in.

I was not excited about the familiar filled carafe that stood on its barrel though, Mr. J guarding it as he had each year.

Mrs. J began her speech, but instead of hearing her words of thanks, I felt only buzzing in my head. I’d swallowed a few glasses of Cab Franc this afternoon, knowing this was coming, but I’m pretty sure it was my own heartbeat in my ears rather than the alcohol.

She stretched out her arms, and it seemed for a moment the wrinkles I’d watched form these past years were gone in a moment. She accepted her husband’s offer of the carafe, and poured the goblets full.

“Let us give first to those who will lead us soon,” She nodded to me and her niece to come forward.

It helped that the young lady next to me accepted her goblet with a shaky hand. It made me feel better that I could barely hold my own still.

“Now raise your glasses of sacrifice for the solstice, the harvest, and the defeat of Demeter’s enemies!”

There was no turning back from this. No leaving, no end. Just me and my crystal goblet with its morose contents. In the moment it took to tilt back my glass, I prayed it wouldn’t be too bitter. That I could handle at least a sip to satisfy the onlookers, my now sworn companions.

Then it reached my lips.

Ah.

Pomegranate juice.

The Word

Ritual

(Noun): A religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order.

(Adjective): Relating to or done as a religious or solemn rite.

I almost feel I should leave this one alone for some reason, let you all ponder on it on your own time. It’s got a little humor, because I think life and writing is dull without it 🙂 But I do hope you enjoyed tonight’s story, and I hope you have a few rituals of your own that help you celebrate beginnings, commemorate endings, and welcome the harvest that comes in every season!

The Story

Being a mermaid is weird.

It’s supposed to be like… ethereal or magical or tragic but like, it’s just weird? You don’t really fit in anywhere.

People on land.

Fish in the sea.

I am literally half and half. And no body wants you! The fish are scared because you’re a predator. The humans would try to cage you. I heard some of them even made up these REALLY rude stories about us drowning people. Which yeah we have some monsters among us who have done some… not so kind things, but so do they. At least we don’t dump our murder victims into their house like they’ve done to us so many times. There were a few years where we just stopped visiting the piers of New York.

My granddad talks about once he was crossing through Italy, moving at night, quick and quiet, to get something or another and WHOOSH dead body dropped right on his head. He even has a scar where the concrete the poor human’s feet were stuck in ripped his shoulder.

Really the only creatures I get along with outside our village are the octopuses, and they don’t even have names. At least not ones that I’ve figured out how to say. They’re brilliant and I love their quiet touch language.

You’d think for as long as they have been around, they would have all these wise sayings. But as one I met in the Pacific told me, they bore with advising the world around them, especially when so few listen. So instead they tell the most outrageously raunchy stories! I mean, when I say they’ve seen everything… they have seen EVERYTHING. Sharks that eat their own tails, sailors that eat their own captains, anything and everything sexing up anything and everything else that moves. One had kept this little booklet it found from a shipwreck near the Arabian Sea that had humans bent in shapes that even in a current I can’t manage.

On top of that, octopuses are hilarious! Thousands of years to prepare the perfect punch line makes results. There’s this one that I visit down near Australia, she told me one that goes like this…

Did you hear about the red ship that collided with the blue ship? All the sailors were marooned!

Haha, I love it! Well, I guess that one wouldn’t be so funny for you.

Okay how about this one: Why was the ship shaking at the bottom of the ocean? It was a nervous wreck!

Not that one either? I mean, you have to be a little lighthearted about your situation, you know.

Like me- I know that my family and I are never really going to fit in. We tried once with the humans, but that’s when those drowning-rumors started. We were trying to introduce ourselves, and we figured the best place to start were the sailors who already spent a lot of time in the sea. But apparently all that sun and saltwater got to their heads and they couldn’t understand our language. They thought we were trying to seduce them or something. Like a mer-lady with any self respect would want to seduce a man without a dorsal fin. Ridiculous.

We still have fun with it, though! Sometimes my siblings and I will go by a cruise ship at night, or by a quiet beach, and hum a few notes, make a couple splashes, just to see what the humans do. They used to just gasp and run, now they try to get a picture of us! As if they could catch us!

And the sea creatures aren’t wild about us either. Most of them think we’re trying to eat them, and the other ones want to eat us. And it’s not just the sharks like you might thing, there are some big spider crabs that can get a wild hair sometimes.

Hair, ha, you know what I mean. Crabs don’t have hair. A wild claw? Mom says I’ve been spending too much time by the coast and I’m picking up these phrases that don’t make a lot of sense.

But if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have found you! And I don’t remember the last time I had such a lovely conversation. Don’t get me wrong, the octopuses are lovely but with their whole practically-immortal thing, they’ve kinda lost their sense of time and they can just taaaalk and talk and talk, you know?

I should take a note from that though and let you tell me about yourself instead of just going on and on. So! Are you from up there? Near the cliffs? Or were you visiting? Must’ve been a vacation with that big jump you did. There are these teenagers that come by every summer and jump off from those same rocks all whooping and hollering. Dad gets annoyed hearing them but I think watching them is so fun! They can’t dive well at all, so it’s funny. And they look funny too- with their bright colorful coverings like they’re trying to attract a clown fish or something!

I like your outfit better. Dark colors, long pants to cover the pale skin of those legs. You’d fit in better around here, it’s better to blend in to the ocean water than stick out. So would your friend in all his dark clothes too! The mask was weird though, he have to take that off to make calls underwater. Why didn’t he come in with you? Is he afraid of water? I’ve heard some of you are afraid of water, which I think is silly, beacuse-

Oh me! I’ll hush now and let you talk!

…

Sir?

…sir?

Oh. Oh no.

The Word

Unworldly (Adjective): 1. (of a person) Not having much awareness of the realities of life, in particular, not motivated by material or practical considerations. 2. Not seeming to belong to this planet; strange.

Unworldy- get it? She’s a mermaid! In the sea! HA!

Wait wait, please don’t go- I’ll stop with the bad jokes* I promise.

So we have a cute little story today, a young mermaid who may have found a victim in the ocean, but is way too excited to have a listener to realize she should probably find him some oxygen…

No big meaning or talk here, it was just a fun idea I wanted to share with you all! Have a lovely night, and be safe by the water!

*Maybe. Probably not.